Emptied Account

Joe shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Waiting in line was not his favorite activity. Especially at the bank. It was obviously that the woman in front of him was fed up as well; she was talking to herself. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but it was clear that she was not happy. Even the security guard by the front door looked bored.

Joe had tried to avoid coming inside. The bank often resembled the DMV, although, honestly, nothing is worse than the DMV. But the bank was bad enough to make Joe think of the DMV. The least they could do was have more than one teller open at a time.

Usually, Joe would just use the ATM machine out front. His trip today had been prompted by Joe’s concerns about how his account was coping with the current economic crisis. To his dismay, Joe had read the fatal message:

ACCOUNT EMPTY
CONTACT YOUR BANK

Not what Joe wanted to read. He was hoping it was a mistake. It wasn’t possible to have a completely empty account, was it? Wasn’t there a minimum amount that had to stay in the account for it to exist?

So Joe was in the process of contacting his bank, which consisted of his waiting in line. He knew he should be more worried about his financial state, but he was mostly just pissed off. Originally he was pissed at the people who had botched the economy, and then the more immediate people who handled his investments. But right now all of his anger was aimed directly at the ATM machine with the bad news and the bank it was connected to, which also happened to be the building that contained the stupid line he was standing in. The teller was going to get an earful when his turn came.

“NO! DON’T YOU DARE!” the woman in front of him was shouting. Joe stared, trying to figure out whom she was talking to. “DAD, YOU ASSHOLE! LEAVE ME ALONE! I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU!”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the security officer tapped the woman on her shoulder. “WHAT!” She whipped around to face the man. As she turned Joe saw the Bluetooth headset in her ear.

“We don’t allow cell phones in the bank. If you would like to continue your conversati—“

“I’m done!” she said and turned back around. The security guard returned to his spot by the front. Joe’s heart was still up slightly, but both the security guard and the teller seemed to take it in stride. Apparently upset people were not unusual in the bank. Not all that surprising, really.

A resounding crash rocked the building. Amidst the sound of metal scraping against metal, through a shower of sparks, Joe watched the security guard lurch forward past him into the woman as he was thrown to the floor. The instant after his hands hit the floor they were surrounded by shattered glass.

Not knowing what had caused the crash, Joe looked around before rising to his feet. Looking forward, he noticed a twisted piece of steaming metal lodged where the handle of the door leading to where the teller stood.

Joe half rose to see where the metal had flown from. As he turned toward the front of the bank (the same place where the security guard had been shoved from, which made sense slowly in Joe’s brain), he noticed green confetti. He also saw what he would find out later was a 1956 Ford Mercury wagon. It wasn’t a classic car that someone had lovingly taken care of over the decades, but a beat up old tank of a car that the owner hadn’t bothered to replace.

Joe couldn’t see the driver because there was smoke spewing from the front of the car. He stood all the way up and grabbed a piece of the confetti that was flying around. As he looked closely at it, the hamsters in his brain racing madly on their wheels, and he realized that it was a portion of a twenty-dollar bill. He snatched another one, more complete than the first.

Without a conscious thought process, Joe moved toward the car scanning the floor. Four feet from the front bumper, which was three full feet in the bank, Joe saw his first undamaged dollar bill, inches away, a landslide of them, pouring from the wreckage of the ATM machine that had stood in front of the bank.

The same ATM that had bluntly told Joe that he was broke now lay broken in countless pieces with its wealth spilled before him. Joe hesitated long enough to look back at the unconscious security guard and the woman he had hit who also appeared to be out for the count.

Joe began shoving money into his pockets. In his frenzy he missed his pockets several times, pushing green paper directly into his pants instead. He didn’t care; it was all going with him.

His pants stuffed full, Joe whipped off his shirt and began shoveling money into it as though it were a duffel bag. Suddenly Joe was glad that he had been slowly gaining weight over the years. Bigger shirts hold more money.

Shirt full, Joe lurched one step toward the door, noticed cash leaking from the bottom of his pant leg. Joe was struck with one last bit of money-carrying inspiration. He bent down and stuffed some bills into his shoes without bothering to take them off.

Unable to jam any more money into his clothing, Joe burst through the front door and scrambled to his car. The teller, still inside, watched Joe leave.

“The perpetrator has yet to be caught,” the reporters face looked very real on Joe’s new high-definition flat screen television. “If you don’t remember, a Bank of America was struck by a 1956 Ford Mercury wagon driven by Michael Farlane, an elderly man who died moments before he crashed of a heart attack. His daughter, Kristine Farlane, was inside the bank during the incident. A trapped bank employee watched an unknown man who was waiting in line haul away money that had been in the ATM machine that Mr. Farlane crashed into at the front of the bank. The security guard was unconscious and the security cameras were shorted out by the crash. The identity of the thief remains a mystery.”

Squid Eyes Abound

Just this morning I stumbled onto a website that has thousands of books online for free. If you ever wanted to read the old "classics," this website has a ton. It also has short biographies of the authors which are also interesting.

http://www.readprint.com/

Krispy Kreme Brûlée

“Fletcher, tell me everything you know about the Krispy Kreme case. I need to hear the facts from a different point of view.”

Officer Fletcher patted his ample stomach as he collected his thoughts. “Three Krispy Kremes have been burned down in the last three weeks. One each week. All three are clear-cut arson cases. Acetone accelerant. Only clue is a pair of thin tire tracks. Which puts the prime suspects on bicycles. All done before the red light was on. Early risers.”

“What time does the red light usually come on?”

“Depends on which Double-K you go to. I usually hit up the one on 4th and Mission; it goes on around 5:30.”

“Downtown red lights at 6,” someone said nearby.

“Willow and Dale used to red light at 6:15,” another helpful officer said.

“You guys know your Krispy Kreme,” Detective Johnson said. He opened his lunch and saw carrots. His wife must’ve talked to his mom again. She was big on eating healthy.

“Best donuts ever.”

“No one does it better.”

“Thanks guys. Let me know if we get anything new. In the meantime, I want officers on location at the remaining Krispy Kremes with their eyes peeled for people on bikes.” Johnson walked to his office and shut the door. It had been five days since the last Krispy Kreme had been burned down; he knew he didn’t have long before the next one was struck. He just didn’t understand why Krispy Kreme was being targeted. A rival donut shop maybe? Krispy Kreme seemed to be pretty popular among the officers. There was a knock on his door.

“Come in.”

“Sorry to bother you, detective, but I’ve found something, I think,” a nervous young officer was at the door. He was holding a map.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Well, sir, I’ve marked all the Double-K’s with red circles on this map. Circles, like donuts, red like the red light, y’see.” Johnson glared at the young man. He gulped and plunged ahead. “Sir, do you know where the closest Double-K will be if we lose those last two?”

“Where?” The officer flipped over the map. The reverse side showed a larger area encompassing the entire county.

“Bishopstown.”

“So?”

“Sir, if my calculations are correct, it will be impossible to get red lighted donuts and still make it to the station on time in the morning.”

“There are other donut shops in town, we’ll be fine.”

“Sir! I’m sorry, but Double-K is the only donut shop! Substitutes will not be accepted!” the formerly nervous officer stormed out of Johnson’s office.

Johnson mulled the conversation over in his head. Just as he seemed to be onto something, there was a new uproar. “NOOOO!”

“Sir!” the formerly haughty face of the formerly nervous officer was now pale with horror. “The last two Double-K’s were just hit. No donuts were saved.”

Johnson left the station dejected. They had found the same tire tracks that day, but no one had spotted any cyclists. He had let the station down. What were they going to do without Krispy Kreme? Clueless, Johnson drove to visit his mother at her retirement home.

“Hi Mom.” Johnson bent to kiss his mother in her wheelchair, clearly upset.

“What’s got you down?” The sharp scent of nail polish remover was strong. Johnson glanced at her fingernails: they were a crisp purple.

“This Krispy Kreme case; every shop in town has been burned down. Distracted, Johnson’s eyes wandered. He saw several large jugs of nail polish remover by her closet. Nail polish remover contained acetone…

“Well, whoever it was, I applaud them.” Johnson turned to look at her in disbelief.

“Why? I’ve had a couple of their donuts before, they’re pretty good.”

“More than a couple, I’d say. Look at your belly.” She jabbed a finger into his softening midsection. “It’ll do the entire department good with those Krispy Kremes gone. Your wives will appreciate it.” Johnson’s gaze sharpened as he examined his mother. Her wheelchair wheels were about right distance apart…

“Mom, what did you do today?”

“Knitting. That’s all we old people do in this place.” She pulled up a half-finished scarf that matched her purple nails. It couldn’t have been her, Johnson thought. Could it?

Squid Eyes Open: Alice

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.
I read the entire book in one long sitting. Carroll wrote both this book, and the sequel Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There, specifically for a girl named Alice that Carroll actually knew in real life. Of course, in real life, Carroll was not Carroll, but Charles Dodgson. Another warp of reality there. If you saw the Disney movie Alice in Wonderland, then you already have a good idea of the story. Small differences arise because the film also borrowed from the sequel. For example, Tweedledee and Tweedledum are originally from the sequel. Several poem parodies throughout the book that are fun, even if you don't know the originals (I didn't, except for one). If you want more facts and analysis, check out Wikipedia. If you want to know if it is worth your time, I say yes.
Feast your squid eyes on the pages of Alice's Adventures: it is a fun read, and not terribly long.

"We're all mad here..."

SQUID EYES OPEN IS A GO

Book reviews suck. No one liked doing them in elementary school, but at least they weren't hard. I have since become more appreciative. It's nice to know what people truly think about books, that way I can decide if I want to invest my time reading them. Now, if you didn't know, good writing goes hand-in-hand with avid reading. This means that I am constantly reading as well as writing. Since I have this wonderful ability to share what I am writing, I don't see why I shouldn't also share what I am reading. Squid Eyes Open will be short, to-the-point reviews of books that allow you to decide if they are worth your time without giving away too much of the plot. They may be silly or serious, but I will do my best to keep them from becoming supercilious.

Commence Operation: Squid Eyes Open.

Predator

I wrote this first story several years ago for a creative writing class that I took. I wrote it after the first day of class. My peers liked it better than anything else I wrote that quarter. It was definitely a fun one to write, mostly because it is based on true events. Enjoy.

Predator

I like my new haircut. I can feel every little breeze now that it has been shorn so close to my head. The rays of the sun warm it whenever I wander out of doors. People like to rub their hands over the short, spiky hairs. They say it feels good. I like the way it feels, too. For some reason, it is very relaxing and has a soothing effect, much like that of a massage. Overall, I am very pleased with the cut. I feel more in tune with the world around me, more sensitive to the little things.

Dammit. Shoo. Go away. Stupid fly keeps landing on my head. I know it’s landing there because I feel its little feet. Shoo. I wave my hand around like a crazy person. That’s what I get for trying to sit and relax on a Saturday. My parents wanted me to mow the lawn, but I said no way, this is my day off. I’m gonna sit here and chill. Man, was I wrong. Dumb fly, what are you doing inside anyway?

My dad walks into the room. Not knowing the extreme annoyance that I’m suffering through, he asks why I’m waving at nothing and talking to nobody. There’s a fly, I tell him. Kill it, he says. He claims to have killed several over the course of the summer. How many, I demand. He is very vague about the number, but adamant that it was a goodly sum. I don’t believe him. Probably more like one. It’s a slow day, however, so I go and grab the fly swatter from the top of the fridge.

Unfortunately, it is not a huge fly, but a rather puny little one. I creep through the family room, trying to track the tiny black speck as it zips through the air. It is virtually impossible to see it against the dark background of the unlit room. I lose track of it. Then it reappears. Then it’s gone again. Then it’s back, and gone. I give up in frustration and sit down.

Still holding the swatter, I sit and wait, surveying the most visible patch of space in the room. The light colored tile floor is an excellent backdrop. Suddenly, a much larger fly cruises into the zone I’m scrutinizing. Because it is bigger, it is easier to track. I leap to my feet, not caring that it’s a different fly. I’m after blood now and I won’t discriminate. All flies are created equally gross in my eyes.

I tiptoe after it, into the kitchen now. Its bloated black body is easy to follow. Short jagged hair adorns its twisted legs. Bulging green eyes explode from its grotesque body. Its wings beat a dull buzz into the air as it lazily weaves through the kitchen. I’m right behind it, following every move. My grip on the swatter uncompromised by the sweat that coats my palm.

As it crosses in front of a window, I slide closer. It lands. The sinister silhouette is only slightly warmed by the dim moonlight. With all possible stealth, I hover in as close as I can. Without warning, it skitters six inches across the glass, then stops, just as suddenly. I am motionless. Even my eyes don’t dare move. It moves another inch. Then the moment. Every predator knows the moment. Just before the kill there is a moment of peace, of perfect calm. Everything, for just a split second, is just the way it should be. All worries and concerns are meaningless, all wants and needs are fulfilled. The universe is in perfect harmony. But only for a split second. With a quick flick of my wrist, a light snap on the window, it is over. Nothing remains but a smear on the window. I examine the swatter to discover the crushed, mangled body of what was possibly the kinsman of the bane of my night.

With a feeling of triumph, I return to the chair I was occupying before the nuisance began. I tell my dad that I am a hunter and a killer. I show him the proof that he couldn’t show me. I wash off the swatter and the window under the orders of my mother. I once again sink into the chair, ready to finally relax and enjoy the evening. As I lean back, a familiar feeling returns to my newly shorn head. Damn.

SQUID STORIES IS A GO

Squid Stories is officially launched. Squid Stories is a growing collection of short stories that I have written. I am writing them because it is something that I enjoy. I am posting them here because other people enjoy reading them as well. If you think a story is particularly good, let me know; if you think a story sucks, keep it to yourself. Of course, any constructive criticism is welcomed and encouraged. The more feedback I get, the better the stories will get.

Begin Operation: Squid Stories.